"Then your ideal girl."
"Ah, you might well be that," I smiled.
I looked at her longingly. She was wonderfully beautiful. I went a little closer to her.
"And we've come," said Reginald, putting his oar in again, "to say that we're sick of getting engaged every week."
I ignored Reginald altogether.
"Are you really sick of him?" I asked Dorothy.
"Yes!"
"As sick of him as I am?"
"I—I daresay."
"Then let's cross him out," I said. And I went back to the table and took up my pen. "Say the word," I said to Dorothy.